


Fool's Gold

by vanessa_cardui



Category: Original Work
Genre: Fantasy, Inflation, Other, Oviposition, Prostate Milking, Tentacle Rape, thieves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 18:01:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13664331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanessa_cardui/pseuds/vanessa_cardui
Summary: Tiller knows better than to rob the old wizard's houses up on Morse Hill. But he got away with it once, and he also knows better than to stiff the Brasscracks for the money he owes them.Only the chest full of gold that he tried to lift turns out to be something else, and it's ready to breed.





	Fool's Gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).



Tiller had spent years working the villas and merchant houses of Capennal before he dared the shadows of Morse Hill. He was fast and strong and limber, and knew every trick that the thieves of Capennel had ever known, but there were traps in the mansions and towers in Morse which didn't have any weak points to exploit. For three hundred years, people had been trying to loot the vaults of the Flowing Ash tower, and none of those who went in ever came back in.

But not everyone who built on Morse Hill was as formidable as the nameless wizard who had made his lair in Flowing Ash, and there were those who relied on reputation and flash to protect things which ought to have been far better protected. And Tillerman Jack... well, when the money came in fast, it was easy for him to spend it. Problem was, it was just as easy to spend when the money wasn't coming in. And the people who lent money to Tiller Jack, and Flash Sien and the rest of the boys... well, they collected, whether or not you had what to give them.

So when the time came, Tiller walked the streets of Morse Hill, with the stride of someone who was just passing on through, headed for business on the canal, or up in the glass market. He didn't even to stop to look at the towers or villas, and paid no mind to the leashed horrors that snapped and snarled behind high iron gates.

He didn't stop to look, but he looked. And he didn't pay any mind to the leashed horrors, or the knife spells that glinted in empty air, or the red-and-gold leopards which prowled through flower gardens, but he made a close inventory of which gardens had which guards, and how many of them.

The first time he dared break a house on Morse Hill, Tiller was three thousand in debt to the Brasscrack syndicate, and didn't have any better prospects. It was one of the new buildings, a tower of black marble and gold, with whispersnakes running loose in its garden.

Whispersnakes were strictly nocturnal. Tiller tried his luck early in the gray dawn, and was in and out before the sun had fully risen, with eighteen thousand crowns in inscribed jewels and rare texts.

There wasn't any hiding a score like that one. Not many fences who'd handle inscribed jewels, and even if there were, wasn't easy for someone like Tiller to keep things quiet when he was fifteen thousand in the clear. He kept the details quiet--no sense in encourage others to intrude on his patch, but it didn’t do him any harm to have it nosed about that he would dare the wizard lairs of Morse.

Most of the boys took it well enough, letting him buy them drinks. Some of them felt the need to explain that they'd never do that, and others that they had done that dozens of times, more, but only when circumstances were exactly right, which unfortunately they weren't.

Only Ralt Smiles didn't seem to approve. He one of the boys, sure, but he'd come from Atheloi, rather than growing up in Capennal, and he'd always smile and joke, and never let anything through. He smiled, but when it came to it, he didn't approve of raiding up on Morse, and said as much.

"Once, twice, you'll get away with it, and with plenty to show. But then. . . well. There are things up on that hill which'll finish a man, no matter how good he is, unless he knows them." Then he flashed one of his smiles, bright as a button and empty as a ploughman's purse.

There was something about Ralt which made folks leery to cross him. So nobody argued, much. And it wasn't like he was wrong. But then, the Brasscracks weren't going to settle for a little bite, neither, once Tiller was back into them for another ten large. It was just a little niggle at the back of his mind, when he went back up Morse, after the place he'd chosen.

It was a house, out near the corner of Vines and Overlook, where there wasn't a big enough lot for something bigger. Old fashioned place, and more than a little rundown. Anywhere else in Capennal, it would've been knocked down and something new would've gone up in its place, but people were cautious about Morse Hill.

Little bit too cautious. There were trellises for dragonrose in the garden, but those trellises were long bare, and more than half of the windows had their glass broken out over the years; only a few glinted at Tiller as he made his way in, on a clear and moonlit night.

Could be it had already been cleared out. If so, he'd try somewhere else. If nothing else, someone up the hill had just brought in a new batch of whispersnakes. He could lure one out with a bowl of milk and a warm place to stay if it hadn't already established a lair. The Brasscracks would give him a week or two grace for a fresh whispersnake.

If he didn't get stung, of course. But then, that was the trick, really, with whispersnakes, and with old houses up on Morse Hill.

Tiller vaulted the fence and made his way up the broad, flat flagstone walk, to the front door. Not through the front door. Place looked like it could be cracked, not like an empty coop. He could see the glitter of a school of knifespells out of the corner of his eye when he didn't look at that door. Pull the handle without the pass, get sliced to ribbons.

Up the front of the building, moving quick and clean. Not that Morse Hill bothered with a watch, and not that the neighbors were likely to stick their noses into other people's business, no matter what it might have been. But not likely wasn't the same as not happening, and there were gaols and hangmen and broken legs waiting for housebreakers who relied on likelies rather than sures. Let alone whatever might be hiding in old houses up on Morse Hill. Up and over and in, slick and fast.

The room over the door was a parlor. Old furniture, nothing too fancy. But not slit up, not looted. People were cautious about Morse Hill, as well they should have been, but there were things that they might have gained but they didn't. Two, maybe three hundred crowns worth of cabinetry, all oak and black walnut, and probably just as much in tapestries and paneling.

Wasn't the sort of work Tiller did, and he hadn't brought in a gang big enough to cart away sideboards and china cupboards. Out of the parlor and into the hallway, eyes open, testing every step before he took it, looking for traps and charms, for hidden chambers and false floorboards.

Nothing in the hallway, but the door to the bedroom creaked open with only a little encouragement, and there was what to be found there. Bookcase, and whatever the texts where--blasphemy or scholarship, secrets of lost ages or technical nonsense, the furniture of those books--the adornments on the spines, the clasps and chains and the covers--those were gold and silver, those were rubies and emerald.

Mouseskin gloves, and a long look, then the five best into Tiller's sack. That would cover what he needed, and more. And there was plenty more where that came from. No reason to be greedy; that house had stood unlooted for a hundred years, maybe longer; everything Tiller was leaving behind would wait until he needed it.

All the same, he had his profession, and it was hard to leave things behind. There was a long case, half under the bed, and its lid was off; as he was heading out, he caught sight of gold, glimmering beneath that lid, bright in the moonlight.

It wasn't even a thought; it was like picking up an unlooked after coin, when someone dropped it in the street. Turn and grab, and keep moving.

Only something grabbed back.

Tiller turned, twisted, his knife stabbing out at the pseudopod that had grabbed his hand, that was enveloping it, pulling him down. It was thick and rubbery, but there was a sheen of enchantment on his blade, and he was quick and strong. He sliced it, drawing thick ichor from the cut, but when he hacked again, another one leapt up, grabbed hold of his knife hand.

He strained, pulling back, getting a little distance against the pseudopod that was cut, but there were more, writhing up out of the box beneath that bed. Only it wasn't a box any more. It never had been. As it pulled him in, Tiller could see that the gold he'd grabbed at was a patch of golden skin, on something which filled the box, which was the box.

There were pseudopods wrapped around both his arms, and a longer, slower one wrapped around his waist, pulling him in. He set himself against it, pulling, but there wasn't any way. One last surge after it got him in, one last look at his sack, the dusty floor of the mansion in the moonlight, the books glittering on their shelves, and then the pseudopods pulled him in, and the lid slammed shut.

Tiller tried to get his hands free, to push at the lid, to pull himself loose, but it was hopeless. There were more and more of the thick, ropy protrusions wrapping around his arms and legs, pulling them apart, pinning them to the sides of the box. And then there were more. These tentacles were smaller, lighter, and there was a strange heat coming from them, which he felt, even in the close air of that box.

There wasn't any point in struggling, and Tiller tried to stay still, tried to conserve his strength for when he might be able to use it. But he could stay still as they burned through his clothing, across his chest and his crotch, filling the air with the smell of singed hair and flesh and fabric, burning him, lightly, over and over.

There were things up on Morse Hill which would finish a man, no matter how good he was.

When that was done, Tiller thought that he was done. And he was, until the tentacles started wrapping around his throat, and pulsing up between his legs. He twisted and tried to keep still, but they were insistent, blunt and powerful, and even though he didn't want to open his mouth, he had to breathe. His blood was pulsing in his throat, and he was on the verge of passing out, when the tentacle forced its way into his mouth. When it hit the back of his throat, and he started gagging, the other one forced its way into his ass.

The other pseudopods were moving against him, in time, pulsing and turning and squeezing. He couldn't bite down, because it had filled his mouth completely as it entered, and he couldn't force it out; it was pushing in stronger than he could push up, climbing down his throat, and up through his ass, just at the verge of tearing him open, but not that.

He couldn't breathe, but it was breathing for him; he could feel the air forced into his lungs and extracted, their rise and fall, and it wasn't anything he could do. The other one was pushing up into him, and it hurt, but also... There were tears at the corners of Tiller's eyes, and it wasn't because of the pain, it was because of the intrusiveness of the other, how good it felt, that strange heat that was coiling up inside of him, which was different than sex. Similar, but stronger.

His cock was rock hard, even though there wasn't anything touching it. And he wanted it. Everything else was forgotten, everything but that burning need in him. He didn't even have to breathe, he couldn't close his mouth. There was something on that tentacle that dulled the feeling in his throat; he could feel it, but only distantly, and he wasn't gagging, or struggling to breathe, as it spread out inside of him. It was worrying, but just as distantly. He wanted... the thing inside of him twisted, pushing against something, and it felt good; a sickly sort of good, but a pressing one.

Tiller couldn't make any noise, couldn't move, couldn't react. But his body was alight. Then the thing found what it wanted, deep inside of him; there was a pulse through the tentacle, and he could feel something passing through him, up from the base, and in. Then there was a point which it passed, which caused Tiller to convulse and come, even though there wasn't anything for him to push against, even though there wasn't any pressure on his cock at all. Tiller came, twisting in the web of pseudopods that held him in the darkness.

But it didn't stop; the orgasm moved through him, and kept moving. Another, larger thing twisted up inside of him, forcing him to come, forcing him to keep coming, over and over again; he could feel the come spattering on his chest and face, pooling in the hollow of his hips.

Tiller passed out, not even gasping, not even moaning, not able to move, except when the thing made him move; then he wasn't able to stop moving.

When he woke, he knew where he was. He was full, impossibly full. His mouth and his ass and his belly. And there were things moving, in both his mouth and his ass. He didn't know what it was, or what it was doing, but he could feel things pulsing through the tentacles. And he felt that heat growing, that need behind his hips, his cock stiffening in the hot air inside that box. Again, more things pushed into him, again, when it hit that point deep inside of him, he lost all control, spasming into empty air, again and again, pleasure becoming pain, becoming unbearable, until he was out.

And again, and again. Each time he woke, there was a moment of mute incomprehension, trying to pull, trying to twist, trying to expel the things that had closed in on him. and then that pulsing up into him, that rising hunger in his lower belly, like sex but not sex, sicker and stronger. And then the orgasm, which seemed to last forever, which seemed to pull everything out of him, forever, pain and pleasure and pain, until he was unconscious.

Tiller didn't know how many times that happened, how long he was out for. It was eternity, each time, and it was the same eternity, the same nightmare. He wasn't eating or drinking, but he wasn't hungry or thirsty. To the contrary, he felt full, all the time. He couldn't move, but he could feel his stomach swelling, worse every time he woke up.

And then when he woke up, there was the sudden light of a lantern.

He blinked and blinked again, eyes tearing, trying to see. He wasn't underneath the bed. The box had been moved, or--

"Tillerman Jack," said Ralt Smiles. "Boys had been wondering where you'd gotten to. Not wondering too much, because they've got an inkling as to where fellows who don't pay the Brasscracks wind up. But I had my suspicions."

Tiller struggled against the tentacles holding him. He didn't like Ralt, but if Ralt would get him out of this, he'd owe him...

Ralt gave him one of those slick, empty smiles. He seemed... happy, maybe. Excited, and hiding it, like a kid who'd tied a fuse to a cat's tail, and the cat hadn't noticed yet. LIke someone who'd come up on a whole mess of high street silverware without anyone keeping an eye on it.

Behind him, the books that Tiller had taken from the bookcase forever ago were back in their places. Ralt ran his hand down the side of Tiller's swollen stomach. and Tiller shuddered at the touch, at the feeling of the things inside of him that touch had disturbed; lumps, dozens of them.

"Saw a little something worth picking up, without being careful about what it really was, eh?" he said, with another smile. "They're good at looking what people might want, you know? Most of the time, they just kill and eat, and turn into something else that catches the eye. Only it looks like you managed to come across one that was ready to lay. Bit of mixed luck there, eh, Tillerman?"

Tiller struggled, tried to force the thing out of his throat. It didn't even move; the only connection he had left were his eyes, and he tried to plead with them, to convince Ralt Smiles to help him, to get him some help. But while Ralt was watching him, he wasn't really seeing him.

"You seem to have been stimulating it more than most. Usually, you get twenty, thirty eggs on a healthy host. But it looks like you've managed to convince it to give up maybe twice that." Another stroke along Tiller's swollen belly, and despite everything, it felt good; it had been a long, long time since anyone had touched him. Anyone human. The thing inside of him was moving again, forcing another egg up through him. He could feel it moving, and his body was responding to the pressure the way it always did, the heat burning inside of him, made stronger by the warmth of Ralt's appraising hand.

"Hatchlings bring a good price, you know?" said Ralt. "It's a little old-fashioned, but they do take care of visitors with itchy fingers." Another empty smile, bright as a button. "Course, it's going to leave you a bit of a mess when those eggs start hatching, but messes like that can also bring a nice bit of change. No accounting for taste, but there are those who enjoy a bit of a mess."

Tiller hadn't liked Ralt. Didn't like Ralt. But he just wanted, he just needed, just a little help, and he'd owe him forever.

"There, there, Tillerman," said Ralt, wiping a tear from his cheek. "Bit of bad luck, yeah. But there are compensations."

His hand moved down to Tiller's cock, which was straining forward, as the pressure inside him built. It was the only contact he'd had since he'd fallen for that thing's lure; he pushed against it, unable to stop, and the orgasm started, harder than any of the others, come shooting across his stomach and chest and face and hair, a glob landing across his cheek as his eyes rolled back in his head; he kept coming as Ralt let go of his cock, chuckling, and though he fought to stay awake, to stay conscious, there wasn't any way. The lid closed again, and as he passed out, he could feel it being dragged across the floorboards, out to. . . somewhere.

There were things up on Morse Hill which would finish a man, no matter how good he was. Unless he knew them; then there was profit to be made.


End file.
